


Speak Low

by togetherboth



Series: Autumn in New York [2]
Category: Martin and Lewis (RPF)
Genre: 1940s, Affection, Friendship, Imagination, Love, M/M, Pining, Realisations, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 04:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20521691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/togetherboth/pseuds/togetherboth
Summary: Jerry breaks a prized possession. Dean makes things better.





	Speak Low

i)

Their last show of the night goes on for so long that it’s just about dawn by the time they leave the Havana-Madrid. It’s shaping up to be a beautiful September day, Jerry thinks as he lights a cigarette and squints into the cold early light. He takes one long look at Dean, makes a decision and sets off down the street towards their regular we’re-hungry-but-we’re-too-beat-for-Lindy’s diner. Dean grabs his arm though, stopping him in his tracks.

‘Jer, we’ve been cooped up all night. We need some air. C’mon, let’s go to the Park.’

‘The Park? Are you crazy? You want to throw a ball around at, what, six uh…’ he glances at his wrist to check the time and is met by the empty space where his watch should be. ‘Aw, shit. I keep forgetting.’

Somewhere in the middle of the second show, Jerry had mistimed one of his horizontal skip-and-plummet pratfalls and landed hard on his own left arm. It hadn’t hurt, though that could just have been the adrenaline. He’d have to wait till later to find out. However his watch hadn’t been so lucky: it had taken the brunt of the impact with the floor and now lay wrapped in a handkerchief in his pocket, smashed to pieces. 

Dean reckons he knows a guy in Steubenville who owes him a favour and would fix it for free, but what good’s Steubenville when you’re in New York? Dean’s just trying to make him feel better. The watch had been an eighteenth birthday present from his parents, and Jerry was pretty upset with himself that he hadn’t managed to keep something that was supposed to last a lifetime safe for much more than two lousy years. Damn it.

He only realises his head’s dropped when he feels Dean’s fingers under his jaw, tilting it back up again. 

‘Park?’ Dean says, hopefully. ‘Just to sit. You’ll feel better. We can tell our troubles to a duck.’

Jerry looks at him, at his tired eyes and his collar turned up against the early morning chill, grinning around the cigarette Jerry hadn’t noticed him stealing. He’s lovely.

‘You’re an idiot, Mr Crocetti.’

‘Why thank you, Mr Levitch.’ Dean dips a little bow and sticks the crook of his elbow out towards Jerry, an invitation. Jerry threads his arm through Dean’s, pinches his cigarette back, and steers them towards Central Park. 

ii)

They’ve chosen a bench that looks out over the Pond and are sitting there side by side, quite close. The sun is coming up and casting a beautiful pale light over the Park, although the nighttime cold lingers. Jerry is fending it off by folding his arms and huddling himself against Dean’s left side. He can tell that his partner is deep in thought, can practically hear the cogs turning. They haven’t found a duck to tell their troubles to yet, but there’s still time. 

‘Give me your hand.’

Jerry glances over at Dean. 

‘Why, you lonesome?’

‘Just give me your hand, Jer. Not that one, the other one.’

Puzzled, Jerry extends his left hand towards Dean, who takes it and plants it firmly on his own knee.

‘Okay, let’s see here…’

He pushes the sleeve of Jerry’s jacket up a little, which under normal circumstances Jerry would complain about given that he’s already cold enough, thank you. But right now he’s too curious about what Dean is going to do. He takes hold of Jerry’s shirt cuff, deftly flips the metal cufflink out of its buttonholes and drops it into his own top pocket, safe. He neatly folds the shirt cuff back on itself, and again, and again, then he runs his fingertips softly down the exposed part of Jerry’s forearm in a vaguely assessing way.

Dean wraps the fingers of his left hand around Jerry’s arm just above his wrist and Jerry’s struck yet again by just how huge his hands are. Like, they’re so big it’s dumb. Nobody needs hands like that. He can circle Jerry’s forearm easily, with more to spare. Jerry can’t fathom how these bear paws, especially busted up as they are from boxing, can be so very gentle. But he does know that he likes it.

It makes him a bit uneasy that this is one of the things he likes about Dean which he suspects girls probably like about Dean too. But that’s okay, he thinks. There are just a lot of things to like about Dean, that’s all.

Dean is rooting around in his pockets, looking for something.

‘A-ha!’ He pulls out a beautiful-looking pen, kind of tortoiseshell with gold bands around it. Jerry definitely recognises it from Angel Lopez’s desk but knows better than to ask how it came to be in Dean’s possession. The guy’s a fucking magpie, seriously; Jerry’s lost count of the number of times he’s asked Dean for a light only to be obliged with his own ‘missing’ lighter.

Dean hovers the pen over Jerry’s wrist for a moment, thinking.

‘Dean…?’

‘Shhh.’ 

He draws a circle about the size of a quarter on top of Jerry’s skinny wrist. He’s gone mad, Jerry thinks. Kid Crochet took one too many blows to the head. 

Seemingly satisfied with his work so far, Dean adds two parallel lines coming out of the top of the circle and two more coming out of the bottom. Then he turns Jerry’s hand over on his knee and connects the lines up across the underside of his wrist. The gentle trace of the pen over soft skin sends a shiver along Jerry’s arm, and another tingling up his spine; they meet at the nape of his neck in a minor explosion, and his whole body shudders. He tries to suppress it, but Dean feels the struggle.

‘Keep still.’

‘I’m keeping, I’m keeping!’

He tries to anchor himself by hooking his chin over Dean’s shoulder and peering down to get a better look at what he’s doing. Jerry’s right arm is trapped uncomfortably between their bodies, so he sticks his hand in Dean’s jacket pocket, which at least gets a chuckle to make the discomfort worthwhile.

‘My lighter still in there?’

‘Uh huh. Well, someone’s is.’

‘Good.’ Dean seems amused. He’s now engaged in drawing the slightly wobbly outline of a buckle on the inside of Jerry’s wrist, which tickles like all hell.

‘So, this watch you’re giving me here. Where’d you buy it from, Paul? It sure is pretty.’

‘Well Joseph, I’m glad you asked… first off I went to Cartier. But they really didn’t have anything good enough for my partner.’ He pauses for a second to scrutinise his handiwork, then carries on. 

‘So then I tried Tiffany, but they said they don’t serve Italians. So fuck _them_.’ He’s drawing delicate little round holes all along the watch strap now; Jerry is biting his lip, keeping still still still. __

_ _‘Then I went to Jaeger LeCoultre and found this one, which I thought was perfect. Cost me a fortune, I tell you buddy!’_ _

_ _‘Well I like it a lot Dean.’_ _

_ _‘I knew you would.’ He turns Jerry’s wrist back to its original position and Jerry digs his fingers a little into the broad muscle of Dean’s knee, just because he wants to and he can. Dean starts work again, drawing another smaller circle just inside the first one.’_ _

_ _‘You’ll observe’, he says, in a Cary Grant-ish tone, ‘the gold bezel.’_ _

_ _‘I love the gold bezel.’_ _

_ _‘Unique to this design, sir. That’s what the LeCoultre fella said. “Well I have a unique partner,” said I. “This timepiece will suit him admirably”._ _

_ _Jerry starts to giggle and muffles his mouth against Dean’s shoulder._ _

_ _’Another unique feature of this watch,’ Dean continues, in his own voice now, working his way around the dial carefully making little dots to represent the numbers, ‘is that the hands,’ he draws them in, ‘always point to exactly eight twenty-five. So it’s just, _just_ before showtime. Forever.’___ _

_ _ _ _He glances at Jerry, whose mouth is still nuzzled into his shoulder, eyes glittering._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _‘It’s the most beautiful watch I ever saw,’ Jerry says._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Dean pockets the pen, slides his own fingers under Jerry’s and lifts his hand up. He turns it and presses a fixative kiss to the inside-wrist place where he drew the buckle. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _All of Jerry’s internal mechanisms short circuit._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _If Dean notices, he’s kind enough not to mention it. He just engulfs Jerry’s hand in both of his own and holds it contentedly in his lap. He looks straight out over the Pond, studying the pale new sunlight where it sparkles on the surface. There’s a moment of silence in which he seems to be considering whether or not to speak again. A little breeze ruffles through the Park, rattling a few dry leaves across the path in front of them. Finally, he says:_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _‘Boy, you should see the inscription on the back.’ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Jerry lifts his head and stares at Dean’s profile._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _‘What’s on the back?’ He asks in wonder. Dean smiles, but keeps looking out across the water._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _‘Turn it over and look.’ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Jerry purses his lips at him. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _‘No?’ His gaze flits to Jerry then back to the Pond, still smiling. ‘Well then I guess you’ll just have to wait until we’re rich and I can buy you the real one. Then you’ll find out.’_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _‘I want to know now.’_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _‘Tough luck, my buddy and pal. You’ll have to be patient.’ Dean sighs and gives Jerry’s hand a final squeeze before letting go. He grabs Jerry’s knee and uses it to lever himself up to standing. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _‘I’m hungry.’ He says. ‘What time is it?’_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Jerry looks at his wrist._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _‘Eight twenty-five.’_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _‘Oh good, just in time for breakfast.’ Dean smiles at Jerry. ‘C’mon, Jer. I’ll buy you a malted.’_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _He looks up at Dean, standing there expectantly with his hands in his pockets and the sunlight behind him. Being funny and kind. And he thinks, oh boy. Oh no. I’m in trouble here. I am in trouble with you._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _But he doesn’t say that. Instead he says, ‘Strawberry?’ And Dean says, ‘Sure’._ _ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> Titled after a Billie Holliday song, again, which you can listen to here if you’d like:  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0iWHd1n1s8E  
She didn’t actually record ‘Speak Low’ until 1952, but it was written in 1944 so I exercised a bit of artistic license.
> 
> A note on names:  
In my head, this is still quite early in their relationship and Jerry’s names for Dean haven’t fully settled down yet. So, he’s still calling him Dean most of the time but Paul is starting to make an appearance, specifically when they’re off on a flight of fancy, starting to create quite an intimate imaginary world for themselves. My version of Jerry’s thinking is that ‘Dean’ belongs to everyone but ‘Paul’ is his. How aware they are of this I’m not sure; perhaps there’ll be another story where they let us know :) Anyway, I hope the use of both isn’t too annoying.
> 
> I’m planning a handful of these little fics, all set in and around their September 1946 run at the Havana-Madrid. They’re not necessarily in chronological order, and there won’t be much plot. They’re just small scenes really, but I’m having fun writing them and I’m really grateful to anyone who wants to read them. I hope you enjoy, friends!


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